Sop Préacháin [A Crow's Wisp]

Ba cheart bhur gcur ó aithne,

tá an tír róbheag, teanga

níos stuama a chleachtadh

nó seasamh siar ón tús.

Ach anois thar aon am eile,

níl teacht ná dul ón tosach.

Ag cóisir daoibh in íoslach tí,

thug tú úll dó in áit osclóra.

Bíonn dúil agus dúil ann,

a shonc féin, ba mheidhreach:

Bíonn diúltú agus diúltú ann — 

cant

Wipe your memory: the country’s

too small, practice

holding your tongue

or stand back from the thing.

As much as ever now

there’s no getting past how

she slid with aplomb

not a corkscrew but an apple into his palm.

There’s come-ons, and come-ons and then some.

His comeback was winsome.

There’s no thanks, and no-thanks-but-frisky—

If that makes me Adam, then you must be ... 

I seile an sciatháin leathair,

tá ceimiceán a choisceann

an fhuil ar théachtadh:

De nádúr an ainmhí é

gur luaithe tál ná téarnamh.

There’s a chemical

in bats’ saliva that stops

our blood congealing.

The animal in us puts

giving before healing.

Ba gheall le moladh

an dara priocadh:

gur chaith tú uait

gan chothrom fola

crúbáil na hoíche

faoi sholas obann:

tabhairt na doraidh

go glé, dá dtabharfaí

Praise be, you thought,

when you gave up the ghost.

But where’s the glory

with no blood lost?

The nails of the night

beneath a bare bulb:

your challenge spotlit.

Now take it up.

Aithníonn sé faoin am seo, an fear i do theannta,

nach ligtear as do cheann iad, na cuimhní cinn

a roinntear,

go mbíodh colúir theachtaireachta aige féin is a athair

is go ndéanaidís blaoscanna uibhe a théamh

chun gob an éin a neartú.

Thug is tugann leat,

an taom a bhuail an buachaill,

é ag fanacht in oirchill is na blaoscáin á róstadh,

gur fhág sé faoin teas rófhada iad—

d’aon turas—a chroí ina bhéal aige—

le teann spóirt, b’fhéidir, féachaint,

dá ainneoin féin, mar a bheadh acu

dá bpléascadh blaosc san oigheann air.

Pillow-talker, as you’d

be the first to admit, a cat let out

of the bag won’t go back in.

Now she’s up to speed on how

you and your dad used eggshells

to harden the beaks

of your pigeons, nodding

off over them, billing and cooing,

waiting for the shells to roast.

Once you left them under

the heat on purpose,

for devilment maybe—come on,

come on—curious what might happen

if left in too long.

Aithníodh sé thairis—

leathchéile na cuilte,

nach slogadh gan chogaint í,

an chuimhne cinn leathoilte.

Súil siar is túisce

a bhuaileann an sprioc:

an buachaill nach gcodlaíodh

nuair ba thrúig oilc an tost.

Níorbh fhéidir a shuaimhniú

go gcloiseadh fead na traenach:

má bhí tiománaí ina dhúiseacht,

ní raibh sé ina aonar.

the fourth mouthful (quoof: slight return ii)

Something else to chew on

besides the tales he’s spun:

he should recognize, no

matter where, his duvet twin.

For the boy keeping watch

when sleep would be nobler,

the place to look

may be over his shoulder.

Who can’t rest until

the train whistle blows:

if the driver is out there

he can’t be alone.

Bhí a fhios aici, an bhean sin,

nárbh ionann súil is éisteacht.

Is d’admhódh de chogar claon

gur fhadaigh tost an béaldath.

Sop préacháin a deirtí

le bean a chaitheadh fear uaidh,

píosa tuí a d’ardaigh an ghaoth

nuair nár oir go beacht don éinín.

Well she knew that holding

an eye isn’t having an ear;

and beyond that she knew

how silence improves lipstick.

A woman a man drops

is called a crow’s wisp:

something the wind takes

when a bird lets it slip.